


herne

by kinpika



Series: invitis canibus venari [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: And a touch of magic, Blood and Violence, Gen, Hawke v Arishok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:53:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29309106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinpika/pseuds/kinpika
Summary: Just as easily brought down. They will tell stories of his quick reaction, to meeting a solid strike, lightning in a blinding white, against the flat surface of his axe. Undeterred by any such feet, taking the distance between them as easily as climbing the steps to the seat of Kirkwall.When they tell her story, the fear will be forgotten.
Series: invitis canibus venari [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2152740
Kudos: 2





	herne

**Author's Note:**

> bgm: the devil & the huntsman

Hawke gets mere seconds to turn her head towards the ceiling. To get out her apologies and guilt, the way she thinks _I’m sorry for stealing that pie in Lothering_ , and a solemn _sorry for diddling that sister behind the pews_. Get as much of it off her chest, as the Arishok seems to grow in size. Heavy weaponry, newfound respect in narrowed eyes.

In comparison, her choice of sword is paltry. One-and-a-half hands, ended with an orb ripped from something forgotten and broken in the Amell basement. Allegedly enchanted to stay ever sharp. if there had ever been a time to test that theory, Hawke would’ve considered the long climb up to the keep the point where she should’ve tried.

At least once or twice.

Not when she swallows loudly, last prayer. Couldn’t afford a passing look at Isabela, or she might’ve ran. Twists steel around her body, hearing it whistle under her hands. Perfect. Almost sounded as threatening as the room was towards her person.

There are as many templars as there are nobles and qunari. Scattered in between, who watch her dodge and dive between swings. Matching each and every blow, only to be knocked away without a thought. But Hawke doesn’t lose her grip, even as she breathes through her mouth sharply, all air taken, with a foot that finds her gut. Kicked back with enough force that pillars are her only support.

Held up. Again. Sword that finds nicks in the armour, drawing loose amounts of blood. Never enough to bleed a man dry. Even with the way she crushes smoke in her hands, allowing her seconds of cutting upwards, between the grey. Missing the chin of the Arishok with disbelief. Ever sharp. Ever missing.

Ever in the position, where she is wide open. Bloodied and open. In her mind’s eye, she can see the axes. Swung under and up, to cut in such a way that she had seen before. Lothering, the way the darkspawn had latched onto the farmer the next house over. She had covered Bethany’s eyes then, pulling her blindly through filth and fire.

Figuratively. Literally.

It must’ve been the Maker himself gracing her with his presence, for her guts to not spill out on the floor before her. Just blood and darkness, swimming vision. Sword falling from fingers, as Hawke finds the gaping flesh, torn clean through. Air humming with the way the Arishok held his hands high above his head, blood that flowed in patterned lines.

Something about seeing her fingers come away red made it all too real. Where red turns blue, and as she falls against a pillar, even the Arishok seemed to pause. Sweeping under her feet, was.

_What?_

Hawke needed to throw up. That’s the feeling she associated with it. How her stomach churned, magic overwhelming. Stitching her back together. No replacing the blood that saturated her shirt, but she could live without that. No more shake in her hand. Finds the edge of steel.

Spirits hadn’t deemed her righteous or virtuous before. Refused to even whisper back when she held her hand against the green. Fucking conditions, is what she thinks, when the hilt didn’t fall this time. Solid, orb lighting up now. Renewed power. Little bolts of lightning that made her fingers numb, arm shaking, as she pulls across her body in a slash, that is met by a block, parry, stagger.

Two steps forward, half a step back. Licks her lips, now. Tries to not see double. Just _move_ , move move move! Run and a roll, to the side, watching the tiles break so close to where she had just been.

Too slow. Pushing herself another foot back, force and blindness. Just as easy to shove the Arishok back, with such an eagerness that it causes him to stumble. And such an action is so easily taken in, swallowed whole. One big breath, as footing is regained, one weapon now. Stronger, more solid.

Just as easily brought down. They will tell stories of his quick reaction, to meeting a solid strike, lightning in a blinding white, against the flat surface of his axe. Undeterred by any such feet, taking the distance between them as easily as climbing the steps to the seat of Kirkwall.

Hawke only lets it go, because she can feel the haze. Pushes herself off the ground again, around the pillar, more distance. More freedom. To hold little bombs of smoke between her fingers, drop them along the way. The spirits were receding, bored now, unamused. About to let herself fall upon her own sword, in no manner that could’ve been considered gracious.

This was all a part of her plan, right? The running part. Careful movements and mindful steps, and now it was her drawing more blood. Just a touch more, cut that rounds the outside of his arm, as she gets in too close. Watched the others fight too many times. Too much fire in her palm, but it does the job against his neck.

She will never be able to forget the way he howled. Not enough time to consider it agony, but perhaps frustration. Anger. Burning kind that has her swiped at with a free hand, trying to catch her now. Not in such a figurative sense, but Hawke knew, perhaps. That it would’ve been more personal, to feel her life be taken away.

And that terrified her.

So much so, that the smoke finally grows around them. Hiding them from view, until she couldn’t see her hand in front of her. Hawke closes her eyes, lets the hilt fall until the orb, resting in red blood that swirled, grew warm. Welcoming her touch, just like it had once before. Not unlike ice, pushing in under her skin, does the feeling grow. Pressure, right temple.

Found her. In the smoke, his presence had only grown. Shadow, that was to swallow her whole. Find her fate in the edge of his blade, as quickly as he had promised. Yet in the steel, she could see her eyes.

Inhuman. In the strike. Upright, under the way he brings his arm down. To where the Arishok holds the axe, centre of her forehead. _Finality_. That’s what Hawke feels, as the blue had turned black in her blood, thick and slow. Iron on her tongue, as her sword was buried under his chin, comfortably in the skin of his neck. Air leaves her lungs, smoke dissipates.

Hawke does not recall the sound that leaves her, as she pulls. Rips. Tears into the skin until a thread held head to shoulder. Cuts through sinew and bone, arm dropping with a clatter. Time does not slow down, but it surges. Violently and loudly, filling her ears with the way feet clamour towards her. Hands that want to catch her as she leans her weight now.

Shaky hand. Bloody hand. Kneels in a pool of his blood, intermingling of it all that does not capture the way her hair stands on end. As the spirits fall silent once more, satisfied by events that transpired. They will write poetry about this moment, Hawke knows. Faces that meld together, sing nothing but her name.

She will be haunted by it.


End file.
